


The Worst Of Me

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Drug Withdrawal, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Eliot goes through withdrawal. Quentin stays with him.





	The Worst Of Me

Quentin finds Eliot in the depth of night, in a dirty alley. His relief quickly mingles with shock.

Eliot looks like he has been through hell and back again. He’s leaning with his back against a wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. His hair is a dishevelled mess. In the dim light of the distant streetlights his skin looks almost grey. His eyes are the worst. They stare ahead into the void, without a sparkle, blank. He looks dead exhausted and hopeless.

Quentin knows this look. And he knows how it’s like to balance on the end of the line.

He steps into Eliot’s line of sight and says, “Hey.”

Eliot barely reacts. He blinks and his next exhale is a sigh. But that’s it.

After a moment’s hesitation, Quentin sits down next to Eliot, ignoring how cold the asphalt is and how the whole alley reeks of beer and piss. He side-eyes Eliot and remembers how this whole thing started, when Margo stumbled into his arms on a chilly evening a week ago. She had been crying. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy.

“Margo?” Quentin asked confused, carefully wrapping an arm around her. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s gone. Q he’s gone,” Margo sobbed into the fabric of his sweater, soaking it with some left-over tears.

“What do you mean he’s gone?”

“I … Since he, he had to kill Mike, Eliot’s not been the same. He hasn’t been talking to me and I thought, I thought he just needs time. But he left, Q. He left and I don’t know where he is, he won’t come home, it’s cold. Q, I worry about him. What if he’s going to get so drunk or high he, he stumbles in front of a fucking car or falls into a river or … what if he’s going to do something to himself, Q?” Her voice got frantic and her eyes wide and Quentin shivered. He didn’t … God, why didn’t he notice Eliot’s state was that bad? But when Quentin asked him if he’s fine, he said yes and told him to fuck off, drinking from his flask.

He laid a hand on Margo’s shoulder and looked at her seriously. “I’m going to find him. I’m going to bring him back.”

It took him some days, despite magic and Quentin started to think that Eliot didn’t want to be found. Which was a frightening thought.

But apparently, now Eliot’s done running away.

Quentin shivers in the cold air, noticing that Eliot isn’t even wearing a jacket. Just a shirt, that is crumpled and looks just as battered as Eliot. Somewhere, two dogs growl and bark at each other. A man yells and a car honks.

Eliot sighs again. He slowly draws his knees towards his chest and lays his chin on them.

“What are you doing here?” Quentin asks him.

Eliot shrugs and Quentin is relieved to get a reaction this time. “Nothing.” It’s barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“Why don’t we go home then?” Quentin suggests.

“Home,” Eliot echoes. It sounds sceptic. But Quentin thinks there’s also a hint of longing in his voice.

“Yeah. Home. I’m sure some food and rest would do you good,” he says encouragingly. “Eliot … Margo’s worried. We’re all worried,” he adds, more serious.

Eliot side-eyes him. He starts to chew on his lip, which looks dry and fractured.

Quentin gets up with a groan, his knees cracking, and he offers Eliot his hand. Eliot hesitates. But finally he’s taking the offered hand, his grip weak and timid. He lets himself be pulled onto his feet and Quentin is shocked at how light Eliot is. How thin and fragile. He leads him out of the alley and towards the bus station.

They barely talk on the drive. Eliot leans his head against the cool windowpane and Quentin nervously plays with his hands.

Outside, it’s raining.

After a while, Eliot starts to shiver violently, and he radiates feverish heat. Quentin eyes him confused and worried.

He’s relieved when they’re finally back at Brakebills and Lipson is checking Eliot through on Quentin's demand. Eliot lets her do it with an impassive expression on his face.

Lipson’s frown deepens with every passing moment. When she pushes the sleeve of Eliot’s shirt back, to take his blood pressure, Quentin sees angry red lines of little stab wounds on the pale skin of Eliot’s arm. Side by side, they form a disturbing pattern. His breath falters. 

Lipson sees them too. She doesn’t seem to be surprised. “Are you going to tell me what you took?”

“Cocaine,” Eliot murmurs absently. “Heroine sometimes. And something blue, I don’t know what it’s called. But it makes a nice firework inside here.” He taps the side of his head and laughs hollowly.

“Jesus, Eliot,” Quentin says, stunned.

Lipson shakes her head. “Well. You are already experiencing withdrawal symptoms. It’s going to be a tough week.”

Eliot hums and looks at his own hand like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. Quentin isn’t sure if he even heard what Lipson said. He didn’t take a lot of drugs in his life, but he’s certain withdrawal is horrible. He’s also certain Eliot would try to get more drugs as soon as the symptoms get unbearable. He looks at his friend, who still stares at his own hand, lips moving slightly as if he’s talking to himself, and makes a decision. He’s going to stay with Eliot.

Eliot has once helped him when he was at his worst, when his walls were crashing down because of a horrible panic attack and he was on the floor, shaking and crying, wishing he could finally dissolve, could finally not feel like this … Eliot has appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around Quentin and mumbling soothing words. He has just been there, and it was what Quentin needed.

And Eliot … Well he seems to need someone being there now too. Quentin hasn’t really been there when Eliot started spiralling downwards after Mike. But he can be there now, helping him out of this slump.

So when Lipson’s done, advising Eliot to get something proper to eat and something to drink that isn’t alcoholic, and Eliot returns to his room, Quentin goes with him.

Eliot seems surprised, when he notices Quentin standing there in the doorframe. He flops on his bed, wipes his face that glistens in cold sweat and murmurs, “I’m just going to take a nap. Then I’m going out to get more coke.”

Quentin’s stomach clenches. He clears his throat. “You have to get clean, El.”

Eliot looks up at him and something like fear flicks over his face. “I don’t want to be clean, Q. I can’t. You don’t understand. I need the drugs, I …” He seems to think he said to much, because he stops and looks away, swallowing. 

“You don’t have to do it alone. I’m going to help you. I’m going to stay with you,” Quentin says calmly. “We can get through this together.”

Eliot stares at him, first looking surprised, then somewhat pitying. “You don’t really mean that, Q,” he says softly.

“Yes, I do. I want to be there for you. And … I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t notice how … what this did to you. But you don’t have to do everything alone. You can allow yourself to get help if you need it. That was someone I had to learn too, when I was … You know. When I was at the edge.” He stops, his throat feeling dry.

Eliot is still staring at him. When he talks, it’s barely audible. “I’m scared, Q. You have no idea … The things that are in my goddamn head. I … It’s too much.” He looks desperate now, and Quentin does the only thing that he feels he can do right now. He sits at the edge of the bed and opens his arms. Eliot sinks into his embrace, barely hesitating, as if he’s searching for an anchor. They sit like this for a while, and Quentin feels the feverish heat Eliot is radiating, feels sweat soaking his clothes. “I’m here,” he says. Just this. And finally, Eliot says, “Okay.”

Quentin does some very quick last minute research. He puts a bucket into Eliot’s room and buys a ridiculous amount of tissues and some washcloths. He asks Lipson for IV-bags, just in case. Penny brings them to him, glancing inside the room.

Eliot is already feeling much worse. He stripped down to his underwear and lays on the bed, shivering although it’s warm.

“Thank you, Penny,” Quentin says and takes the bags.

Penny just nods. Suddenly, he frowns and looks over to Eliot on the bed. His eyes widen and the expression on his face changes into vague pain. “His wards are down. Fuck. Take care of him, Coldwater,” he murmurs and walks away quickly.

Quentin stares after him, wondering what Penny caught. “I will,” he says, closing the door.

He locks it.

* * *

Quentin figured it would be hard. But nothing could have prepared him for the next days, although Lipson warned him once. _He’s going to be different,_ she said. _He might insult you. Hurt you. And it's unbearable to see someone in such state, Quentin.  
_

And she was right.

It starts with fever and nausea. Stomach pain and tremors. That is the easiest part of it. Quentin uses to lay on the bed beside Eliot, ready to help him get to the toilet. He sometimes strokes Eliot’s back and Eliot seems to like it, arching into the touch.

But soon, the psychological symptoms of withdrawal show, and it’s pretty frightening.

Eliot starts to scream in the middle of the night, trashing around, his eyes wide open but unseeing, as he’s in the clutches of whatever horrible dream he has had. Quentin tries to calm him down, hugging him close, rocking him. His heart aches when Eliot starts to cry and his tears soak Quentin’s pyjama.

“It’s the same …” Eliot gasps once, pressing his face against Quentin’s chest, who runs a hand through Eliot’s sweat-soaked messy curls. “It’s … It happened again. I don’t want to remember, please …”

"Talk to me, El. Get it out," Quentin tells him. Because he knows from past experiences, that getting it out helps much more than keeping it locked inside your own mind, where it can gnaw at your mental walls.

That’s how Quentin learns about the incident with Logan Kinley. He’s shocked that Eliot discovered his powers this way. It had to be incredibly traumatic. And now, Eliot’s connecting it to what he had to do to stop the Beast. His heart hurts for Eliot and he starts to cry himself.

With the nightmares come regular anxiety fits and once, when they’re in the bathroom, where Quentin helped Eliot to shower, Eliot stares at him wide-eyed, trembling in horror. Quentin frowns. “El, what’s wrong?”

“There … Your face … You …,” Eliot stutters, making a choked noise and hiding his face in both hands.

Quentin turns to look into the mirror. “There’s nothing. Eliot …”

Eliot whimpers and Quentin can barely hear his words because they’re muffled by his hands that are still hiding his face. “Moth,” he whispers. “A blue moth. I saw it. It … It was there. On the mirror. It …” He makes a gagging noise and drops on the floor, bending over the toilet, vomiting violently.

Quentin strokes his heaving back and asks himself how many days like this are left. He feels himself getting anxious too. Altough he's taking his meds, the fear and depression are lingering in the background. Always. He fights them off as good as he can, but seeing Eliot like this is not helping.

And it gets even worse.

After the constant anxiety comes rage. Eliot starts to get bad-tempered. And finally, Quentin is standing in front of a pale and miserable Eliot who demands to leave the room. Who wants to get back to the drugs because he needs to numb his mind, needs to stop the thoughts and the pain.

“Let me out,” Eliot growls.

Quentin shakes his head. “No. No, we’re almost there, Eliot. Don’t give up now.”

“Why do you care anyway? My life is not your fucking business, Coldwater! Now go away, leave me alone!” Eliot yells, making a stumbling step forward.

“No.”

“Get out of my way!”

“No.”

Eliot makes a wild noise full of rage and in the next moment, Quentin is pushed back against the wall, hard, by invisible hands. He groans as he hits his head and sees stars for a moment.

Eliot stares at him and slowly raises his hands to pull at his hair in desperation. “That’s all I can do,” he whispers. “Don’t you see? That’s all …” He sinks down with a whimper until he’s a crumpled heap on the floor. “I don’t want them,” he gasps, and Quentin figures he means his powers. “I want them gone. _Please_ …”

Quentin’s stomach drops. He moves over to Eliot and wraps his arms around him. “It’s alright. I’m okay. And … That’s not all, El. You can do wonderful things with your powers. I’ve seen it. Some things are … They are like light and shadow. You just need to find a balance.” He doesn’t know if he’s rambling rubbish, but Eliot calms down in his arms and he just goes on. He just goes on.

  
After that, there’s only sweat, vomit and weakness left. 

Eliot can’t do much more than laying on his back, breathing heavily, rolling to his side now and then, when the nausea overwhelms him again.

“Why … why are you still here,” Eliot once murmurs. “Why …”

“I’m not going to answer that question,” Quentin says firmly, pressing a wet cold washcloth on Eliot’s sweaty forehead. “You know the answer.”

“But … I hurt you.”

“You didn't mean to. And it wasn’t that bad. Now hush. You need rest.”

Eliot finds the strength for a weak grin, that brings back a tiny bit of his usual cockiness, which relieves Quentin. A lot. “You’re acting like a, a mother hen.”

“Yeah? Then you’re my ugly duckling, I guess.”

“Sh-shut up, Coldwater. That doesn't even make sense."

They both chuckle and Quentin thinks that’s an improvement.

But the fever rises even higher the next day. Eliot slips in and out of unconsciousness. Sometimes, he talks. And Quentin discovers a lot in these moments. It’s like taking a look into Eliot’s mind. A look behind every mask. It feels horribly intimate. It’s scary and painful.

“It hurts, Q …”

“I know. Just take my hand. Here. Squeeze it as hard as you want to. It’s alright.”

“Please don’t leave me Q …”

“I won’t.”

“Everybody always leaves.”

“I’m not everybody, Eliot.”

“I’m so sorry, Q.”

“There’s nothing you have to apologize for.”

“I don’t deserve your care. I’m worthless …”

“Stop that. That’s not true. You’re worth everything I do and more.”

“Q!”

“El … what’s wrong, what …”

“I … You were … You were dead. I … I threw you against a bus with my powers, I …”

“It was just a dream, El. Just … It wasn’t real. Calm down. I’m here. I’m fine.”

“Q?”

“Yeah?”

“I … I really love you, you know.”

“I love you too.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“But … Is this just some late night ramble, or …”

“It isn’t.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

It gets worse. Then better.

Quentin stops locking the door and lets Margo visit, who sits on the edge of the bed and hugs Eliot so hard, he has troubles breathing. But he laughs softly and hugs her back, murmuring apologies.

  
The next day, Eliot manages to go to the bathroom alone. Quentin sleeps a lot on this day. He sleeps almost 10 hours.

When he wakes up, he’s alone.

Eliot’s up. He’s in the kitchen, making them scrambled eggs.

When Quentin stumbles into the kitchen too, yawning and scratching the back of his head, Eliot throws him a glance. Their eyes lock.

“Thank you,” Eliot says softly.

Quentin smiles. “You’re very welcome.”

They eat together in comfortable silence. Outside, the sun is shining. Birds are singing, cheerfully announcing the summer.

Sometime, Eliot reaches over to brush his fingers against Quentin’s. They smile at each other in silent understanding.

Something new blossoms in Quentin’s heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker and always grateful for being corrected! I'm constantly trying to improve my English, so please don't hesitate to tell me about mistakes. <3  
You can also tell me if you're missing a certain tag/trigger warning, I'll add it. 
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: [ready-to-kick-some-ass](https://ready-to-kick-some-ass.tumblr.com/) :)


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